Friday, September 8, 2017


"a portable altar strapped on his back/ pure and severe"  --
-- pythagorean silence, Susan Howe

 TEN YEARS AGO, I founded this blog, stealing my title from Antonin Artaud, with the aims of a person with different aims, in a world where aims were different, where social media such as myspace, tumbler, twitter and the monolothic succubus facebook were nascent, a world where one was achieving social difference because one had a web identity, constituted by a website, a wikipedia article, a page with review links, a digital nomad tag, the signs of one aspiring redittor someone, or someone already someone YOU NEED TO KNOW, and all the attendant pretentious truffles and trifles. For many years previously I had a website under the name Orphan Sounds, kept at Noe Cuellar's, until it was hacked or I became otherwise unknowable. And while some of my aims have shifted in perspective, one aim be yet true, the true itself, named (variously) after the affirmation of "seraphic pleasure" of consensual fucking, the arrival on the shores of Artaud's text of the bodily truth, that remains the song forever changing through ceaseless modulations of silence, the word that repression and oppression might end within. Artaud's Transparent Abelard being a surrealist's celebration of libido had to my mind that link to the search for truth via dialectic of the 12th century theologian (Pierre Abelard) and the love(r) of literature (Héloïse d'Argenteuil) and their tantric union, a myth to herald the end of the Dark Ages. So it's an eternal incipit, let's say, both selva oscura and vita nova, tangled up and if I had known... The stutter speaks for itself, alone...

"And he said:
"Oh, Abelard!" as if the topic
Were much too abstruse for his comprehension..."

That this blog-basis in the Transparency of an Unameable Ecstacy, what my friend recently called Bewilderness, which remains true, (even if he didn't say it), that this was not only about the carnal but also about the celestial, cosmic, the post-coital & quantum entanglement, the end of excluded middles of all sorts, only goes to say that it's all about what it cannot be about. Ever. Yet strives to be. Authentic, even falsely (as Fernando Pessao might have put it). Moreover, the continuity of my writing this blog remains in the notion of truth Olson wrote of which consists in standing more revealed but, with the new perspective, that the most revealed is also the most flat, unprepared, unadorned, naked, even without scandal, at times. So bold and potent that it passes for banal. In Jim Jarmusch's recent film, Paterson, this character, who remains the city, the almost Blakean eternal one of the dream, the great figure, the anonymous rock (WCW) Paterson: a poet and no-one, a listener. When his girl-friend urges him to publish, and even speaks to him about the trumpet image in the Ohio Bluetip Matches in the poem she has never heard him recite, and he knows. Maybe the poems are all cribbed from things there no ideas but within. The poet knows only or only knows the sources of the real and that the only thing standing in between is some nameless illusion we can't fathom.
Strike anywhere, they say. Water Falls. "Hey, what's that from?"

  So he stood on the island— over the sea
Until creation was a cone with polished sides."
-- George Oppen


 final photo: Park Wilsona, Poznan
  all others internet archives
I believe the far left an image of
Père Lachaise, Paris 
but I've never been to the alleged tomb
of Abelard & Heloise. It is believed
by many they are not there, or not both
& yet one hears the pilgrim letters
of forlorn lovers
litter the stones

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